It was the kind of night that writers wrote sad stories about. The kind that poets’ heart bled out to. A bloody half moon illuminated half the eastern sky and a star fell to its death a billion light years away. It was the kind of night that troubled people should not be out alone in. But there he stood, on that rooftop once again, unfolding his mistakes like presents at a Christmas dinner. They came apart in his mind and tortured his reforming self in an old kind of pain that quite frankly; he should have gotten used to by now. But he had not. And he was reminded of that fact almost every day. He tried to focus on the good, the tiny specks of light that filtered into the tunnel he was in and promised an end up ahead.
The good. That day, he’d only had about half a glass of whiskey, which was an improvement, at least according to the guidance and counseling mistress. He remembered the talk they had had earlier that day in her office. It was after his morning classes and he had kept the appointment.
“So, Ken, how are you doing today?” she’d asked.
“Not so bad. But it’s only ten in the morning.”
She’d put her pen down and looked at him over those half moon spectacles that gave her that wise look.
“Now, now,” she’d said, “What did we say about the negativity?”
And then she’d told him how to focus on being positive and how that was the only way he could beat the drinking problem. But she had not told him of how to fight off all the other problems that pursued him. All the other ills that made him have a drinking problem. In all fairness however, he had not been so forthcoming with those troubles himself. It was working though, the counseling. It helped put things in a clearer perspective that his often cloudy thoughts kept jumbling up.
His mother’s birthday; his niece’s adorable little smile; his upcoming internship and the love of a very fair young lady. Was it love though? He didn’t know. Ah, the jumbled up mix of thoughts again.
One day at a time. He reminded himself. And it would all fall into place.